Chapter One
I knew they’d come for her. The poor thing. Wandering in unknown territory trying to shake a disorienting drugged-out haze. She was easy prey for a couple of two-bit rednecks. Goes to show how things are bass ackwards in this world.
Well, they weren’t going to get away with it. Not on my watch.
Honey Bear—as she’d been christened by Sally Newberry, the second grader who’d won the naming contest run by The Upper Michigan Mining Gazette—had been caught rummaging through the trash cans of some downstater who didn’t know any better than to throw her chicken bones into a black plastic bag and set it right out on her back porch. Might as well hang a neon welcome sign. It was the bear, of course, who needed to be rehabilitated. Dubbed a “trouble” bear, she’d been trapped, tranquilized, poked and prodded, then released yesterday afternoon here on the north side of the refuge. Now she was an easy target.
The sun hadn’t poked up over the horizon yet and there they were. Just as I thought. The Lawson boys. Coming down the two-track in their souped up purple Geo Tracker. It was outfitted with a state-of-the-art antennae mounted on the roof, makeshift kennels built into the back, and two greasy haired, grinning idiots inside. The true genius of their bear poaching contraption was the blue tick hound dog straddling the hood, his collar chained to an eye hook mounted where a hood ornament would go, his long ears flapping in the wind. This way, his nose was right out front to catch bear scent. I shook my head. Rednecks. I aimed the video camera and pushed the record button.
The dog’s name was Brutus. I’d met him a few weeks ago when I’d pulled them over and demanded they take him off the hood. They were just outside the refuge and claimed they were training the dogs for the legal season. Not my jurisdiction, but I couldn’t help it. The heat from the engine could burn his paws and being chained to a moving vehicle was dangerous, not to mention absurd. They promised to glue some carpeting up there, give ‘im something to grip, they’d said. Assured me that’d do the trick. Jackasses.
Roy, my SAC, (that’s special-agent-in-charge), told me to choose my battles. Hell, it’s not illegal and besides, we have bigger fish to fry, he’d said after he’d eased out of his pickup and went through his usual routine of tugging at his belt, pulling up his pants, first on one side, then the other, then sauntered over to stand beside me and ask what was the matter.
At first, I didn’t know what to think of my new partner, Roy, when I was transferred to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. But soon enough I’d realized Roy’s kinda lovable in a grandpappy kind of way, what with the green flannel jacket he wears everyday and the old red plaid Stormy Kromer hat covering his bare head, ear flaps up in the summer, down over his ears in the winter. He’s got that easy, laid back disposition that makes you feel like time’s an illusion and tomorrow’s just as good a day as ever to do whatever it is you might be pondering doing.
I got him some snazzy suspenders for his birthday. He gave me a half-grin and a genuine confused look, asked whatever in the world I’d done that for, the belt he had worked just fine. I wasn’t sure if I’d made a serious faux pas, or as they say in da U.P., if I’d stepped in it. There was a long, awkward moment, the kind which I’ve come to accept as a common reaction to me, before he’d chuckled and snapped on the new suspenders. Course he still adjusts the pants in the same old routine.
Brutus let out a yowl and the little Jeep-wannabe came to a halt. He’d caught Honey Bear’s scent.
I shoved the last of my granola bar in my mouth and hunkered down in my blind. I was sure the Lawson boys were planning to dart Honey Bear and sell her live to an illegal bear bile farmer where she’d spend the rest of her life barely conscious, crammed into a cage no larger than her outstretched body to restrict her movement, a metal catheter implanted into her gall bladder to withdraw a continuous supply of bile. The cruel practice causes excruciating misery for the bear. But poachers don’t care. Bear bile sells like liquid gold. 250ccs fetches around US $1000 in China to those who believe in traditional medicine. They say it’s a cure-all for hepatitis, hemorrhoids, hangovers, and chronic diarrhea. Maybe it is. But torturing a bear to get it, well, I’d take on the PLA to stop it if I could. Right now, in my corner of the world, I’d have given my right eye to see these bastards fry, but sending them to prison would have to do. I just had to bust them first.
And today, that’s just what I was going to do.
The boys got out of the car. The dogs were going ape shit, yipping with excitement. I had about ten seconds to call it in. Roy answered the phone right away. “What now, McVie?”
“Listen, I’m in the northwest unit, off the Old State Road. The Lawson boys just pulled up in their hound wagon.”
“What the hell are you up to?”
“They released Honey Bear yesterday.”
Roy sighed. I could tell he was rubbing his temples, like he always does. “You been out there all night?”
Roy had an annoying habit of asking the obvious.
“Dammit if they didn’t warn me about you. Listen to me now, girl. Don’t you go underestimating them boys. Out there alone in them woods, that badge ain’t gonna protect you.”
“What good is this badge if I can’t protect the animals?” And don’t call me girl.
I tried to pull the phone from my ear to hang up, but it was stuck in my hair, all matted and tangled with a gob of pine sap. Roy was still yammering on the other end. “You wait for me to get out there.” I yanked it free, punched the end button, and put on my USFWS hat. At least I tried. Somebody had the bright idea to require us to wear these things. Whoever it was has never tried to tame my mop. I shoved my ponytail through the opening in the back and called it good. I was ready.
Bear hunting with dogs works like this. The dogs catch the scent. The hunter (if you call it hunting) sends his pack of dogs to chase down the bear, tree the poor thing, then the men track their prey using GPS to the location sent by the remote contraption on the dog’s collar. The dogs might run for several miles before they corner the bear. So the Lawson boys will tool along in the little Geo, watching a blip on a tiny screen until they get the signal that the lead dog has stopped. Then they’ll saunter over to the bear, all puffed up and proud of themselves, and shoot the helpless creature out of the tree.
Unfortunately, in Michigan, this is perfectly legal. In fact, letting your dogs chase a bear in the off-season, terrorizing it for training and practice, is also legal. Darting a bear and capturing it live isn’t.
As my grandpa always said, come hell or high water, I was going to catch them doing it.
The problem was, they had the advantage of a dedicated GPS unit. If I followed them, they’d see me and bail, claiming they were just out letting their dogs run. I had one choice. Do it the old-fashioned way: keep up with the dogs.
The good thing is a pack of hound dogs will yip and yap, making a ruckus as they race after a bear. When they close in on their prey, they start baying, a low bawling that can be heard from a distance. The bad thing is they can run about twenty miles per hour. Good thing I wore my wilderness running boots.
The kennel doors were flung open, Brutus was unchained, and the pack took off through the woods, yapping with excitement. I waited for the boys to latch the kennels closed and mosey to their seats then drive off before I left the blind. I strapped on my running pack and slipped my hand into the strap on the video camera. With a deep breath, I touched the bracelet at my wrist. I know you’re with me, Dad. And I took off after them.
The dogs headed southwest and kept a steady pace for about fifteen minutes, gaining distance ahead of me. Twice, I slipped in the mud on wet leaves, but for the most part I managed to keep upright and moving forward. Then their vocalizations changed. They were close to the bear now and had her on the run.
I slid down the edge of a ravine, sprinted up the other side, barreled through a patch of brambles, and tripped and fell flat on my stomach. The video camera went tumbling. I got up and shook it off. I needed a moment to regain my bearings.
The pack had headed into an old logging area where the pines grew in rows. I picked up the camera, made sure it was still working, and sprinted down a fairway until I ran out of steam. I bent over, my hands on my thighs, my chest heaving. These dogs were fit. After I caught my breath, I continued on. They weren’t far off. Must’ve her treed already, I realized. I’m coming Honey Bear! I approached with caution in case I was wrong; a terrified bear wasn’t someone I wanted to stumble upon.
I homed in on the yowls. They came from an open area covered with moss and grass that had been trampled by deer bedding down overnight. Sure enough, on the far side was Honey Bear. She’d shinnied up an old oak tree, all four paws clamped on. She was grunting and growling while the dogs whined and scratched at the base of the tree. Brutus had his head tilted back, howling for his masters.
I quickly scanned the area. I needed a place to hide. My own prey would be along soon. My best option was a small spruce pine on the edge of the clearing. I set the video camera in the crook of a branch, pointing toward Honey Bear, double checked it was recording—I didn’t want any mistakes on this one—then crawled beneath the pine boughs and checked my phone. No cell service here. Using the handheld radio was too risky; anyone could be listening in. I texted the GPS coordinates to Roy, hoping a text would make it through, then hunkered down to wait.
It seemed like an eternity. Poor Honey Bear was frothing at the mouth. For successful bear poachers, they sure were slow. There was no doubt, though, that’s what they were. Word around town was, last winter, they’d showed up at the Buckhorn Bar with brand new snowmobiles, acting like big shots, buying all their buddies Budweisers and running their mouths about hitting it big time. They were tight lipped about details, though. Come spring they had new four-runners and shiny new Remington shotguns. It didn’t take a seasoned Special Agent to figure out they were doing something illegal. Since they had no common sense and couldn’t hold a regular job, it wasn’t hard to surmise they were making money on the only thing they were good at. Poaching.
My father and I had run into poachers a few times over the years. Spend enough time in the wilderness and it’s bound to happen. I’d rather face down a tiger than an angry, gun-toting poacher. The image of my father, facing down a poacher was too much—I heard their voices. Then I caught sight of them ambling into the clearing. Jed, the longer haired one, held the GPS tracker in his left hand, and—I knew it!—a dart gun in his right. His cousin Larry was right behind him, a shotgun slung over his shoulder. They both wore Carhartt coats, blue jeans, and the requisite baseball caps, always sporting either some beer logo or a silhouette of a woman, the kind that commonly adorns the mud flaps of an eighteen wheeler. I’d seen them all.
I could arrest them right now for carrying a loaded shotgun with the dogs off-season, but the penalty was a slap on the wrist. No. I wanted them for poaching a live bear.
Jed nodded to his cousin, a shit-eating grin on his face.
Leaving Brutus on point, they called off the other five dogs and tied them to nearby trees. Then Jed took the shotgun from Larry, handed him the dart gun, and grumbled something I couldn’t quite make out.
Larry beamed with pride.
I looked up at Honey Bear. My heart clenched. Sorry girl, I have to let them do it. It’s the only way. You’ll be all right.
Larry raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The dart flew wide and stuck in a tree limb low and to the right.
Jed yanked the dart gun from Larry’s hands. “Gimme that, you dumbass,” he said. “We don’t got none to waste.” He shoved the shotgun at him. “Hold that.”
Jed zeroed in and let the dart fly. It struck its target. Honey Bear flinched and dug in with her claws. Soon her head started to droop and she slid halfway down the tree trunk, ripping bark off in tiny strips, until her claws let loose and she flopped to the ground with a thud. Larry let out a hoot.
“That’s how it’s done!” Jed shouted and gave Larry a high five.
The dogs bounced around, barking themselves hoarse, yanking to the end of their ropes.
Jed leaned the dart gun against the tree and while Larry tied up Brutus, he took some twine from his pocket and hogtied the bear. He slipped a muzzle around her mouth, cinched it tight, then punched something into his cell phone. Texting the GPS coordinates, I assumed. He wasn’t stupid enough to drag this bear out of here right now, with the dogs and the dart gun. Someone else was the pickup crew.
I crawled out from under my tree, brushed off the pine needles, and straightened my hat. Then I walked right up behind the cocky bastards. “Howdy boys.” Jed spun around. Larry’s head bobbed over his shoulder, his mouth hanging wide open. He blinked twice, his eyeballs bulging like a bullfrog in a murky swamp. He wasn’t sure if I was real or an apparition.
He still had the shotgun slung over his shoulder. I kept my weapon holstered. Provoking an armed idiot wasn’t a good idea. I was glad it was Larry who had the firearm, though. He wasn’t a killer. He’d hesitate. Besides, his aim sucked.
Jed, the smarter of the two, screwed up his face, trying to figure out how I’d gotten all the way out here in the middle of the woods. He spit a glob of black goo out the side of his crusty lip. “Who the hell are you?”
“Special Agent McVie. You’re under arrest.”
“Really?” He smirked and glanced at his cousin. “And who’s gonna arrest me?”
Cousin Larry’s eyes darted back and forth, eyeing every tree another agent might be lurking behind. “Yeah, who?” he muttered.
“Wait, I know you,” Jed said as he took a step closer to me.
Good. Keep coming closer.
“You that new duck cop. Pippa, ain’t it?”
“Special Agent McVie. Now step back. Turn around, put your hands up, and lace your fingers behind your neck.”
“Pippa, huh?” said Larry. “Like that princess a’ England. Dude, she’s hot.”
“Shut up, Larry.” Jed took another step toward me.
That’s it. Keep coming.
“Now what you doin’ way out here all by yerself?” His eyes traveled down to my waist and back up, settling on my chest. “Ain’t it kinda dangerous? A sweet young thing, all alone in the woods?”
He took another step closer, just beyond my arm’s length. He wore steel-toed boots. That was to his advantage. And he stood a foot taller and had at least a hundred pounds on me, too. But his Carhartt coat would restrict his movement. I looked up at him. “I can take care of myself. Now turn around.”
He grinned. “You hear that, Larry.” He turned his head to spit. At least he was that polite.
Larry scratched his neck. “Jed, I think we oughta just go.”
“Well, Larry, that’s the thing. We can’t just go. She seen us.”
I nodded. “It’s true, Larry. I did.”
Honey Bear moaned and tried to get up, licking her lips like an old drunk. Hold on, Honey Bear, just a bit longer. I turned my gaze back to Jed. “You see, Larry,” I said, my eyes locked with Jed’s. “That beautiful bear is going to stay right here where she belongs, in the wild. And you and your cousin are the ones headed for a cage.”
“Sheee-at,” Jed said. “Ain’t you a feisty little thing?” His toned changed. “Larry, go get the dart gun. We gonna have us some fun.”
“Larry, don’t you move a muscle,” I said, my eyes still on Jed. I could handle these two, but if they got a dart in me…
Jed howled with laughter. “Woohoo, this is gonna be fun!” he shouted. Then he made a mistake. He took one step closer and grabbed me by the shoulder. I planted my foot, flung my arm up over his, and dropped. His elbow made a crack as it broke. That’s for Honey Bear, you son of a bitch. I butted him in the back of his knee and took him down. He landed on his belly, bellowing like a pig in heat. I rammed my boot into the small of his back, grabbed his broken arm at the wrist, twisted it to meet his other wrist, and slapped a twist-tie around both.
“Holy mother!” said Larry. He tossed his shotgun to the ground and took off running.
I kept my boot rammed in Jed’s back while I unclipped my radio from my belt. “Suspect is on foot, heading north-northwest from my location.”
“Yeah,” was all I heard. I looked up to see Roy at the edge of the clearing. Larry was backing away from him. He tripped and fell on his ass. “Got him,” Roy yelled with a wave.
I leaned over and whispered to Jed. “Tell me who you’re selling these bears to.”
“Screw you,” he growled and spat.
I rolled him over, sat him up, and just as he drew in a breath, I smacked him on the back. He coughed and hacked.
“How’s that chew taste?” I asked.
“Bitch, I ain’t telling you nothin.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Something tells me he’s on his way. We’ll just wait here for him.” Jed closed his eyes and put his head down.
Roy had Larry handcuffed and leaning against a tree. He stomped toward me.
“What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped. “I told you to wait.”
“I had to catch them in the act.”
Roy closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his left hand. He looked over at the bear, then down at Jed who was moaning, his right arm twisted at the wrong angle. “What am I gonna do with you?”
I clenched my teeth together. I knew when to keep my mouth shut. Well…most of the time. Roy shook his head and walked away.
I went to Honey Bear, knelt beside her, and stroked her head between her ears. You’ll be all right. Just sleep for now. It will all be over soon.
Roy had gotten about four paces before he turned around. “While you’ve been out here galavanting around, the CO’s been trying to get you on the phone. I didn’t want to use the radio.”
“What’s he want?”
“Dunno. Said to call right away.”
“As in right now?” Our CO, head of the Midwest region, was headquartered in Minnesota, an hour behind. “He’s up early.” I had to walk about two hundred yards to get a signal. Three missed calls. Crap. I punched the call back button. “This is Special Agent McVie, I—”
“Hold the line,” I was told. Then seconds later, “McVie?”
“Yes sir, what’s—”
“Pack a bag and get to the Detroit airport by six p.m. You’re booked on a flight to Georgia.”
“Georgia?” The federal law enforcement training center, FLETC, is in Georgia. “Am I scheduled for some new training? Wait, did you say six p.m.? But, sir, Detroit’s an eight hour drive from here.”
“Yeah, you better get moving. Leave your badge and firearm with Roy.”
“My badge, sir?” Why would he ask me to leave my badge? “Have I done something wrong?”
“Temporarily reassigned.”
“Reassigned?” This couldn’t be good. “Where?”
“Uh—” There was a long pause. “Actually, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” What the hell is going on?
“I was told to tell you to wear civilian clothes.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
He huffed. “It’s above my pay grade. Alls I know is you’ve been specifically requested. That means they ain’t askin.”
This wasn’t making any sense. I glanced back toward Roy and the Lawson boys. “I can’t leave now. I just busted a couple poachers taking a live bear. We’ve got to stake out—”
“Roy can handle that.”
“Yeah, but Roy—”
“Poppy.” He sighed. “Just get your ass on the damn plane.”
Chapter Two
As I exited the jetway in Atlanta, I ran smack into an airport employee holding a paper plate with McVie scribbled across the back. Nice. I followed the young man but started to get the feeling I was getting punked, like I was being walked onto the set of a seventies horror movie—the long, confusing corridors, the lone flickering fluorescent bulb, all the closed, unmarked doors.
He finally came to a halt in front of what looked like a broom closet. Porn movie then? He gestured for me to go on in. “Thanks?” I managed.
I gripped the door knob and flung open the door. “Hi, I’m Poppy McVie.”
A balding man in a crumpled white shirt and a tired striped tie looked up from his desk and frowned. His left hand lay atop a briefcase that looked like it had been issued during the Vietnam War. It was crammed full of manila folders. Definitely from headquarters.
“Poppy!”
I turned. It was Mr. Strix, my favorite instructor from FLETC. What was he doing here? He bowled me over with a bear hug. This was new. “I’m so glad you were available,” he said. He gestured toward the stuffed shirt. “This is Stan Martin, head of Special Operations.”
I snapped to attention and glanced back to Mr. Strix, my eyebrows raised in a did-you-just-say-what-I-think-you-said question. The head of Special Ops? Mr. Strix gave me a quick wink.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” I said. Special Ops? Was I finally being assigned to Special Ops? I pasted a professional smile on my face—not too wide, no teeth.
Mr. Martin was staring at me with that look. The oh-my-god-she’s-just-a-girl look. He frowned. I frowned. The thing is, I’m five foot two and all of one hundred and four pounds. I have unruly red hair and freckles and in high school, kids called me Pippity-Poppity-Poo, as in Pippi Longstocking, the precocious Swedish children’s book character who has no manners and—this is my favorite part—can lift her horse with one hand. Not exactly the moniker of which a teenage girl dreams.
In college, I wore fake glasses for a semester, the kind with clear lenses, thinking they’d make me appear older, more sophisticated. Damn things gave me headaches.
Now, at age twenty-four, on looks alone, I could probably pass for Pippi’s older sister. I’ve learned to accept people’s reactions to me. Well, mostly. Okay, sometimes. When I’m in the mood. Like when I’m meeting the head of the organization of which I’ve dreamed of working since—well, forever.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” said Mr. Strix, his hand on my back, gently guiding me toward a chair. I dropped my duffle next to the door and sat down. He perched on the side of the desk and adjusted his thick round glasses. “We don’t have a lot of time, so why don’t we get right to it.”
“Yes, sir,” I smiled and turned to Mr. Martin. “So I’m being promoted to Special Ops?”
Mr. Martin harrumphed. Actually harrumphed. Apparently that wasn’t the thing to ask. He crossed his arms and shook his head. I looked to Mr. Strix. He cleared his throat and put on a smile. “Temporarily reassigned. An Ops team is in need of a, well they need some help, an agent with your—” He sat up straighter. “Unique skills and talents.”
“Okay,” I said. What else could I say? No one knew what I was capable of better than Mr. Strix.
Mr. Martin closed the briefcase. “Jim, I’m not sure she’s—”
Strix held up his hand. “Now Stan, you asked for my recommendation. I have every confidence in Poppy. She’s as bright as a whip. She was top of her class.” He beamed with pride. “And since she’s been a field agent, her record speaks for itself. More busts than any other—”
“I got the resumé,” Mr. Martin said. “But for Special Ops, an agent needs—”
“Balls,” I said.
Their heads snapped in my direction.
“That’s your concern, right?” I sat up straighter and looked him in the eye. “What exactly do you need me to do?”
Mr. Martin regarded me with skeptical eyes for a long moment. His lips puckered and unpuckered. Twice. Finally, he sighed and said, “We’re nine months into a long-term investigation.” From the briefcase he plucked a folder, flipped it open, and handed me a photo. “Our target: George Hillman. An ex-pat living in Costa Rica. He sells legal species for the pet trade, frogs, snakes, whatever. We know he’s the contact for the sale of some exotics, CITES class I and II species, but the offer to sell always comes anonymously, so we can’t pin it on him. More importantly, we think he’s the connection to the kingpin of shark fin exports. Shark fins are big business and the Costa Rican government has asked for our help.”
I knew a bit about shark finning. In a few short years, fishermen had decimated ninety percent of the shark population off the coast of Costa Rica. The black market price for shark fins soared up to $700 a kilogram. Shark meat, which is legal to harvest, has remained inexpensive and, therefore, not worth carrying for the fishermen. To maximize the space in their holds, they’d begun hacking off a shark’s fins while they had it on the hook, then tossing the still-breathing creature back into the sea, unable to swim. It’s heinous.
“This George is the target for shark finning? You said he deals in exotics for the pet trade.”
Mr. Martin shrugged. “We know he’s connected. But he’s slippery. We don’t know much else.”
“What do you know?”
His eyebrows narrowed. Lips puckered.
“I mean, what else can you tell me?”
Mr. Strix shifted his position on the desk. His head pivoted around so he could see me through the narrow vision of his glasses. “Poppy, you must understand, the guys on the ground are undercover. It can be risky to make contact with headquarters and when they do, they don’t always have time to tell us much.”
“So what are their assignments then?”
“That’s the thing,” said Strix. “They—”
“This is an elite team. The best of the best. I don’t give these men assignments,” said Mr. Martin with impatience. “I give them objectives and they work independently.” He closed the folder and frowned. “You’ll be briefed when you get there by the SAC, Joe Nash.”
Joe Nash was a legend. A super legend. He practically wrote the book on Special Operations. Having the chance to work with him could be a career changer for me. In as indifferent a voice as I could muster, I said, “I heard he has his years in for retirement.”
“He does, but he says he won’t file until he nails this guy.”
I nodded. I could relate.
“He’s posing as a rich collector. We have another man on the ground, Special Agent Dalton.” I hadn’t heard of him. “He’s a buyer. Then there’s a third agent on the case, Special Agent García. We’ve had no contact from him in weeks.” He looked concerned.
“What was his objective?” I asked. They were throwing a lot at me at once, probably to see if I could keep it straight.
Mr. Martin said, “He was working the poaching side, trying to identify the buncher.” He paused. “A buncher is—”
“I know. The middle-man. He buys from the poachers, tends the inventory, then sells to the smuggling kingpin.”
Mr. Martin gave me a respectful nod. He handed me a post card. “His last correspondence.” The image was of a palapa bar on the beach called The Toucan. On the back García had scribbled a message: Having a great time. Have my sights set on a beautiful butterfly. Paco.
“What’s that mean?”
Mr. Martin shrugged. “Dunno. Butterflies are a big black market species. When you talk to Nash, give him the info. Maybe it makes sense to him.”
I tried to read the postmarked date. “When did you get this?”
“Two weeks ago. Nothing since. It could be he’s too deep to make contact.”
Mr. Strix shifted to the edge of the desk. “It’s a dangerous operation, Poppy. When you work Special Ops, you’re on your own.”
I sat back. I could handle that. In fact, I preferred it. “Is this typical protocol? To bring in another agent right in the middle of an investigation?”
The two men looked at each other, tight-lipped. Mr. Martin leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Undercover work isn’t like you’ve read in your textbooks, young lady.”
Young lady? I could feel my teeth involuntarily clenching together.
Strix drew in a breath. “Poppy, listen. This op is vital. We’ve had very short notice to find someone, the right someone, to send in.” He leaned forward and adjusted his glasses. “I believe that someone is you.”
“So how do I fit in?”
Mr. Strix grinned as if he were about to hand me a winning lottery ticket. “You’re going to choose your own pet monkey.”
I looked to Mr. Martin, then back to him. “I’ve always wanted a monkey?” The Barenaked Ladies tune started playing in my head.
Mr. Martin picked up a pencil and tapped it on the folder. The beat didn’t match the rhythm of the tune in my head and it was aggravating. “You’ll be partnered with Special Agent Dalton. His cover is the owner of a chain of pet stores in Texas.” He handed me a business card with the info. “He usually spends about ten days in Costa Rica once a month. He’s built a rapport with George and recently hinted at wanting to buy class II species. Specifically,” he cocked his head to the side, “he mentioned how his wife wants her own pet monkey.”
He paused, waiting for my reaction. The fluorescent tube above, as if on cue, flickered and hummed.
“So I’m the trophy wife,” I said. As he had said, Special Ops is an elite group. Those guys were seasoned agents. The legendary Joe Nash was in his late sixties. Thinning hair, arthritis. Dalton must have been about the same. Probably has dentures. The things I do for animals. I held out my hand for the folder. “How long do I have to study my cover?”
Mr. Martin put out his hands, palms up. “That’s it.”
I looked to Mr. Strix. “What do you mean, that’s it? How do I make contact? Where do I go?”
He reached into a sack that had been tucked beside the desk and produced a wide-brimmed straw hat and a god-awful handbag—gold lamé with a giant buckle studded with sparkling bling. It was large enough to carry a poodle. “Seriously?” I asked.
He examined the handbag, innocently perplexed by my reaction. “It’s my wife’s,” he said, as if that made it unquestioningly perfect.
I zipped my lip.
Mr. Martin looked at his watch. “Your flight’s in one hour. You connect through Dallas where you’ll switch to first class.” He eyed my duffle. “Make sure you pick up a new carry-on bag that’s appropriate to your cover.”
Mr. Strix took my hand and slipped a diamond the size of Montana onto my finger. I shook my head. “Whoa.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll be running with the big spenders. Besides,”—he gave me a wink—“Brittany’s worth it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Brittany?”
Mr. Martin harrumphed again. “This from a girl named Poppy.”
My eyebrows stretched upward so far my eyeballs hurt. In a soothing voice, which from anyone else would seem condescending, Mr. Strix said, “Dalton had to pick something. He didn’t know at the time we’d be sending someone in.”
I tried to smile, wondering if the next trick he’d pull from the bag was a voucher for a boob job.
“Your partner, Special Agent Dalton will be at the airport in San José to pick you up. He’ll be wearing tan slacks and a light blue polo shirt. Make sure you wear this hat.” He plopped it on my head.
I flipped through the folder again. “Where’s a picture of Special Agent Dalton?”
The two men looked at each other, blank faced.
This was starting to feel like some kind of back room, cold war, clandestine mission. Flick the lighter twice, knock once. It was going to be fun. I wanted to rattle off a I’m your Natasha in my best Russian accent. Instead, I said, “It’s all right. I’ll figure it out.”
Mr. Martin leaned forward on the desk. “Listen, I know this situation isn’t ideal. But Jim assures me you’re up for it.” He set his jaw. “You need to understand the serious nature of the op you’re walking into. One mistake could mean your life or the life of a fellow agent. Got it?”
I took off the hat. (It was going to be a full-on job to get my mop to fit in that thing.) “I got it.”
“I mean it, Agent McVie.” He paused for a beat. Then huffed and shook his head. He glared at Mr. Strix. “I hope I don’t regret this.” He turned his glare on me. “Rule number one of undercover work: always keep your cover. The thing is, undercover work is like improv. Don’t take anything personally. You’ve gotta roll with it. You two are newlyweds, so smooch it up. You never know who might be watching.”
“I understand, sir.” I had the urge to ask if I should pick up some Viagra on the way, but I was already pushing my luck and Mr. Martin didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor.
“Rule number two: tell as few lies as possible. Makes it easier to keep things straight. If you liked Barbies when you were seven, then Brittany liked Barbies when she was seven. The key is to be yourself, to act natural. Got it?”
I nodded. “Barbies. Got it.”
“Three: if something doesn’t feel right, don’t proceed. Walk away. Be patient. You don’t want to push a relationship. Better to take another day than to blow it. And four: if you suspect you’ve been made, get the hell out of there. Notify your SAC right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you get the chance to meet George, be cautious. He’s likely going to test you. He’ll scrutinize everything you say and do.”
“George. Test me. Got it.”
He stared for a long moment as though it were his last chance to change his mind.
“Is that all, sir?”
He heaved a sigh. “Good luck.”
Mr. Strix rose to his feet. “I’ll walk you out.”
I slung the rich-bitch bag over my shoulder and gave Mr. Stan Martin a nod.
After two right turns and three to the left, Mr. Strix handed me a cell phone. “A Michigan number is programmed under Mom. It will transfer to me. Call if you need anything.”
“Michigan?” I asked, but as the word came out of my mouth I realized. “No Texas accent. I grew up in Michigan. Got it.” I stopped and turned to him. “Thanks,” I said.
He smiled.
“Has there been any news on my dad’s case?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Nothing.”
I walked a few more feet, turned and—nope. I was going to let it go.
He lifted his glasses to rub his eyes and sighed. “What is it?”
“Nothing, sir.” I turned to continue on.
He gently grabbed my arm. “It’s Special Ops. That’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for recommending me, sir.”
“I was glad to do it. You’ll make me proud. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
We continued on, another left turn. I stopped again. “The wife? Really? I was specifically requested because they need a woman? That’s it?”
“Listen to me.” He took me by the shoulders like my dad used to do to make me face him. “It’s an opportunity. Take it.” He gave me a hopeful smile. “When you get there, listen to your SAC, follow protocol, and trust your training. I don’t know your new partner, Dalton, but Joe Nash is a smart guy. I’m confident, in no time, he’ll see your potential.” He gave me another hug. “Trust me, Poppy.”
I gave him a smile of thanks and winked. “You can call me Brittany.”
* * *
Juan Santamaría International Airport in San José, Costa Rica is the second busiest airport in Central America. This was an advantage. Even someone I knew, like my own husband, might be easily overlooked in the bustling crowd.
At Customs and Immigration, I presented my new passport. Under my mug was the name Brittany Katherine Fuller. It even had my actual birthday, April 3, 1990. Someone was really thinking when they tucked in an immunization card with an emergency contact: my husband of three months, John Randolf Fuller.
I ran through some memorization routines. Hi, I’m Brittany, John’s wife. So nice to meet you, George. This is my husband, John. John, John. I need to go to the John with John. John the baptist. John Lennon. Johnny. Johnny be good. Johnny Depp. Oooooh yeah. Johnny Depp. I could be married to Johnny Depp.
I couldn’t think of any thing else to prepare. During my flight from Detroit, I had rummaged through the handbag and found a pack of gum, a tin of aspirin, two emery boards, several maxi pads, a bottle of hand lotion (half used), a mini-pack of tissues, a pair of cheesy, goggle lens sunglasses, and a change purse that looked like it was handmade by someone’s grandma. Everything a girl could need and all courtesy, no doubt, of Mrs. Strix. I’d have to remember to send her a thank-you note. Without the typical items, I was at risk of someone realizing that stunning fashion accessory was a prop. There was no time to shop for a poodle.
The most important item I’d found in the bag was a wallet with cash and a credit card in Brittany’s name. It worked at the luggage store in the Dallas/Fort Worth International terminal where I found a shiny white leather carry-on bag. (I’d never buy leather, but I figured Brittany would love its rich, supple feel.)
The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service could pull some strings pretty quickly, it seemed. I hoped they were as good at wardrobe assignments, because that’s all I had to go on. Tan slacks and a blue polo shirt. I was about to find out.
I flipped the straw hat onto my head, pulled it down, hoping it would stay, and moved with the crowd toward the ground transportation area, scanning for my new hubby. It felt like a freak blind date, only I couldn’t fake a migraine and slink out the back door. I kept telling myself, no matter what, I was going to smack him with a big kiss, right in front of everyone. No one was going to accuse me of blowing an op.
As I approached the exit, I knew I was in Central America. The cool of the air conditioning mixed with waves of humid, tropical air and exhaust fumes wafting in from the street where cars honked and engines ran, all maneuvering for the best spot.
I caught sight of someone waving. He wore tan slacks and a blue polo, but it couldn’t be him. This man was young, tall and lean—one of those guys who crawls under razor wire and bounds over ten foot walls for exercise. I quickly scanned the luggage claim area for a balding man in the same get up. No one. I turned back. The guy was walking toward me, waving. I faked like I hadn’t seen him the first time. “Hi Honey!” I called.
He walked toward me, his arms outstretched. I dropped my bag and lunged into his embrace. He lifted me up and spun me around. Wow, he was strong. I tilted my head back and he kissed me, long and hard. “I missed you,” he crooned as he set me down.
Man, was he ripped, pecs firm as a ham hock. I lingered a moment with my hands on his chest, looking into his deep, brown eyes. He was my husband after all. I gave him my best Texas sweetheart smile. “I’ve missed you, too, darling.”
Dalton gave me another peck on the lips, then, his eyes warning me to be careful, he nodded toward a man who hovered a few paces back. “George sent his driver. Wasn’t that nice?”
I pulled away from his embrace and flashed my best Brittany smile at the man.
“He’s invited us to dinner,” Dalton added.
“Fantastic, I’m starving.” I reached for my carry-on bag but Dalton grabbed it before I could.
“Let me get that,” he said.
Maybe this marriage could work out after all.